Читать книгу Pee-wee Harris on the Briny Deep - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 8

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Suddenly, Pee-wee heard a sound in the distance, a sound which recalled him to the realities of life, and in another minute something happened to dissipate the harrowing spectacle. An automobile, containing perchance a party of late joy-riders, rushed by, and in the momentary glare of its headlights, Pee-wee saw illumined a gaudily painted wagon piled high with a variety of wild animals; reindeers, lions, tigers, zebras, giraffes and other denizens of the forest and jungle, reposing in uncanny postures with their stark limbs poking this way and that in wooden stiffness. In the brief glare, Pee-wee could not see all that was printed on the gaudy conveyance of this heap of carnage. But he knew that he was looking at that festive and innocent thing, a merry-go-round in dissected state.

Pee-wee was not afraid of this. He had had too many encounters with merry-go-rounds in assembled condition, to be afraid of one thus dismantled for traveling purposes. With sturdy little sword, he had jabbed triumphantly at too many brass rings, to quail now before a merry-go-round laid low. He had ridden too many giraffes and camels to be appalled by their glassy stare while resting from their labors. To be sure they called up visions of a slaughter-house, but Pee-wee knew them for what they were.

He now made bold to investigate the caravan of which this prancing wooden menagerie was a part. And in process of doing so, he discovered an animal which he had no desire to ride. In a small wagon cage a great bear (yes a bear!) paced back and forth, utterly heedless of the head Chipmunk who stood as near to the bars as he dared and watched the mighty beast move its shaggy head back and forth with unwearying swing, occasionally emitting a startling roar. He did not look much like the creatures of the merry-go-round.

His persistent roarings presently brought forth a sleepy little old man who climbed down out of a fancy van and seemed greatly taken aback at beholding Pee-wee gazing enraptured into the cage. As nearly as Pee-wee could make out in the darkness, this little old man wore a fancy jacket with shining buttons, but in the hurry of donning it, had left it unbuttoned. His face was wrinkled and his hair was long and snow white.

“I—I was only listening to him,” Pee-wee stammered apologetically. “Geeeee whiz, he can roar all right, can’t he?”

“I suppose you live in the great house up yonder,” said the old man in a gentle, almost timid voice. “We are just stopping over for a bit of sleep; this is my little caravan. I hope we’re not—not trespassing?” It seemed odd that the lord and master of a bear should be so gentle, almost fearful, in addressing Pee-wee.

“Is it a show—that you’ve got?” Pee-wee asked. “I’ve got a show—kind of—of my own in this big field. That bear woke me up. The scouts in my patrol are camping over there in the tennis pavilion. Geeeee whiz, that’s a dandy big bear.”

The little old man spoke softly, and there was a fine quality in his voice, and a graciousness in his manner, of which even Pee-wee (notoriously indiscriminating) was vaguely conscious. “Just a minute please,” he said, as he approached the cage. It seemed to Pee-wee that he was admonishing the bear to silence, and at the same time bribing it with some unseen morsel of food. “He’s very obstreperous to-night,” the old man said, “just at a time when, above all times, we want him to be quiet. We’ve had a very trying evening—a very discouraging evening.”

“Do you mean your show didn’t go good?”

“There wasn’t any show,” said the old man. “The authorities here have refused to give us a permit to exhibit. So we’re just resting for the night, and to-morrow we’re going on to Centervale.”

“Do you mean they wouldn’t let you give a show here in Bridgeboro?” the astonished Pee-wee asked. “And with a wild bear and everything? Geeeee whiz!”

“Yes, our little entertainment seems harmless enough,” the old man said. “We have a merry-go-round, a shooting gallery, and Teddy, our performing bear; Teddy Roosevelt is his full name. And my little grandson, Claude. See? Hsh! Come on tiptoe.”

The little old man stood aside inviting Pee-wee to glance inside the van, and the scout gazed upon an enchanted scene. Upon the couch lay a boy of about twelve years, sound asleep. The place was fitted up gipsy fashion, as Pee-wee could see by the light of a bracket-lamp which cast its dim glow in the little rolling apartment which was the only home the old showman and his grandson knew.

“Hsh, careful not to wake him,” said the little old man. “Now you must run back and go to sleep yourself. Shows may come and shows may go, but boys need their sleep. And unless Teddy has done with his uproar we will have the police upon us before daybreak.” He laid his hand gently on Pee-wee’s shoulder and smiled upon him; it was a very wistful and kindly smile. “So I mustn’t add to my other misdemeanors by keeping you from your sleep,” the old man added.

And now, in the dim light of the smelly little tin bracket-lamp, Pee-wee was able to get a good look at this enchanted mortal whom the rough authorities had harried and ordered out of town. That the police should withhold the hospitality of Bridgeboro from such a being! That they should refuse to give house room a troupe of prancing wooden horses and a magnificent bear! Why it was as if they had ordered the great Roosevelt himself out of town. Pee-wee now saw that the little old man’s face was very white and wrinkled. The velvet jacket which he had hurriedly put on was of a gaudy red with brass buttons and gold braid and seemed gorgeous enough, notwithstanding that it was much worn and soiled and in its unbuttoned state revealed the homely shirt beneath it. And Pee-wee, indiscriminating as he was, saw that his friend had none of the cheap bombast of a showman; he was a little, old gentleman.

“Did you wear that uniform when you asked the police if you could stay here?”

“My little friend,” said the old man, “the police care for no uniforms but their own.”

“Listen,” said Pee-wee, trying his best not to talk loud. “Don’t you care, because you can give your show here and even you can be partners with my patrol. Do you see this big field? It’s private land, it belongs to the people who live in that big house, and they told us we could use it for our carnival. So I’ve got a dandy idea—”

“Splendid!”

“That’s nothing, I get them every day,” said Pee-wee. “Do you mean to tell me the cops can stop you if you drive your wagons onto this private land? It’s even kind of more than private land; it’s like part of the lawn of that big house. That man is a millionaire and he’s a friend of mine. Even I went up to his house and talked to him. He owns banks and everything—and I went and talked to him. Even he came to my carnival and bought frankfurters and things—and Mrs. Baldwin too. Maybe you don’t believe millionaires eat frankfurters, but they do. And listen—”

“Shh—”

“I’m shhssing—only listen. A feller in this town—he’s so fresh—he said if I could show him a real bear he’d join my patrol. Do you think I’m a-scared of the cops? So will you bring your show up into our field and we’ll kind of mix the carnival and your show up together, kind of, and we’ll make a lot of money. And I’ll tell you positively sure the cops won’t do anything to you, because it’s the private land of that big house. Don’t you be a-scared, you just leave it to me. You don’t have to have any permit or anything and I’d like to see anybody stop you from staying on the private land of a house that belongs to a millionaire that said I could use it, and if they try to bother you it’s trespassing, because my uncle is a judge and he knows—geeeee whiz!”

“At least we might rest for the night in your field,” the old man said. “Anything to get off the highway.”

“Yes, and you can give your show there, too,” said Pee-wee, “and you can stay as long as we’re here. And I’ll have the laugh on the cops and the Silver Foxes too—that’s a scout patrol, so don’t you worry. A scout has to be trusted, because he knows what he’s talking about. So you do what I tell you.”

If Pee-wee had known more about that poor little old man’s experiences of the afternoon, perhaps he would not have taken so much credit to himself for the showman’s willingness to drive his outfit into that peaceful haven presided over by despairing Chipmunks. Probably he had no hope of anything more than an undisturbed shelter for the night. The hedge-bordered courts were at least safer than unauthorized parking space along the public street. And the weary, harried, old man wanted his little grandson to sleep.

So he drove in between the big granite gate posts. He had but one team of horses, the little truck containing the dismantled merry-go-round being fastened to the van, and the tiny cage with the bear being fastened to this latter ramshackle conveyance. It was quite a little parade drawn by a single team.

Pee-wee, with all the pomp of a drum-major, led the way across the field till they brought up at the scene of the carnival.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Because I can cook you some frankfurters if you are. I can cook you waffles, too. And I’ve got a can of spaghetti that we didn’t use. You don’t need to be a-scared because now you’re part of my carnival and if the cops get fresh with you—you just leave it to me.”

These were the first reassuring and hospitable words that old Max Melnotte, of Melnotte’s Traveling Show, had heard throughout that whole long day. Oh, what a contrast between the two sides of this traveling show business! The girls and boys who rode the prancing horses to the frightful din of the old hand organ, the older boys who shot at wooden pigeons and squirrels which careered around on a wheel, the children who gazed awe struck at the big bear—little did they know of the troubles encountered by the tinseled genius of these delights.

In Barrowtown, old Melnotte had been summarily ordered from the city. In Bridgeboro (famous as the home town of Scout Harris) he had paused in Westcott’s Field only long enough to be told to pack up and get out—“no traveling shows.” So he had waited three hours to see the police chief who detained him not more than three minutes. Yes, he might get a permit, but that would cost fifty dollars. And he had not that much money. The chief told him that the town did not want any “carnivals.” Of course, that did not mean police and firemen’s carnivals.

So poor old Max trudged up to Willow Street to see the mayor who told him not only that he couldn’t exhibit in town (he didn’t say why) but that he might even get into trouble for not sending his little grandson to school. That certainly frightened the old man. Still, he had to earn his living, so he went to see the prosecuting attorney of the county (Bridgeboro being the county seat) to find out what the prospect was for exhibiting in some other town under the jurisdiction of that official, and was told not only that the next three towns on his route had ordinances against traveling shows, but also that he might be prosecuted for “possessing, harboring, confining, exhibiting, transporting and having or holding within his care and keeping any wild animal.”

By the time poor old Max Melnotte encountered Pee-wee, he was well assured of at least two facts. One that he was a criminal in a dozen different ways. The other that he was very, very hungry.